What a beautiful face I have found in this place that is circling all round the sun.

Here's what I've eaten today:

four bite-size brownies-300.

an apple-40.

340

Vegetable and lentil soup-150

60g chocolate biscuits-290

440

a fruit smoothie-120

an all day breakfast batch.-400

520

=800+500= 1300

The breakfast batch might be more, but I left a lot of the bread and some of the bacon. I'm getting a lot better at stopping when I'm full and eating when I'm hungry, and I do feel thinner. I walked to campus today.

I want to write about you, Little Bird; how are you? Are you alright, are you keeping safe from harm's way my lovely? You inspire an ode to your body. It's so pretty. A beautiful dream that could flash on a screen in a blink of an eye and be gone from me... soft and sweet. How the notes all bend and reach above the trees. You run and I can climb, we're escapists. At least, I am, perpetually.

A kiss on your turtle lips, with their little downward point all softly warm for me.

I adore you more when you're not here.

Dear, here are some things I'd never say to you.

You think that your strong features are bad; but they're good. You are so very beautiful, and you always have been, fat or thin. Your face will age so well, your cheekbones are beautiful, your eyes are lovely and I wish that I could look like you, just those offhand glances you throw in lectures. I might tell you this.

You look loveliest to me without makeup in your glasses, when you have just been running, in your old tracksuit that's baggy, sweating, with your wispy hair standing out looking through a book and trying to make me drink your bizarre tea. You're so beautifully comfortable in those dusky moments, and I think you look your best in glasses. So clever; authoritative. I like that you run; that you are passionate about it, that it makes you feel on top of everything, that it clears your mind, that you are very good at it. I cannot fathom running; but you can. It's magic.

I worry about your binge/purging. You say you binge but I worry it extends to the other. I worry, from the easy way that your fingers slid down your throat when you were drunk, that you'll do it more. That you're doing it now because you ate ice cream tonight. I might ask you if you do, but I would never say I worried because that seems stupid coming from calorie obsessed me, and because I'm in no position to- I'm not your parent. I do wish to cradle you up into my arms and sing to you off-key like your mother did, though. Both of these feelings are strange and bizarre. I feel like I want to care for you, and to boost you back up, even though you're doing wonderfully well on your own. You're the only one of my friends (save for him) that I can readily touch, and I would listen to you weep.

You do attention seek. It can be irritating. I like you nontheless. I might tell you that, one day. If it is right.

Your jewellery is garish and overstated. It is part of you, it's part of the way you are, and it's fantastic. Again, this is something that I could tell you.

I like your soft rounded belly. You don't; it's a weakness for you, isn't it. A thing to cauterize and eliminate, but I adore it. It's beautiful. I want to kiss it. I don't care if it's like white crepe velvet, or scarred, or anything. It is yours, and it is wonderful.

I would never say that to you because you don't see it as part of yourself, and for me to acknowledge it as such would be for me to be combining it with you. You want yourself to be slim skinny thin; and that is not anything you need or want. I don't want to make you more aware of anything that you think is a flaw more than you are. I would spring to the defence of that image of yourself; when E. said she thought you'd gained weight, I was the first to say I didn't think so, or I didn't know. I didn't, but I would still say so now that I know; I do not want to divert from your image of yourself. But that cannot stop me thinking that your stomach is soft, and valiant, and vulnerable all at once.

Little Bird.

You look just perfect. I adore scaring you. I adore you, and you know it. I know that you adore me too. I worry you might tire of me. We can talk about real things, and lovely things, then we laugh. Every time you say that you are fat I want to hold you close and say it is wrong, you are wrong about that. Because when you say fat, you mean ugly and undesirable and slippery slope back to what you were, and what you are is not any of those. You have put on weight, a little, but no matter.

I worry about your eating sometimes. Is that patronizing? It's how my parents felt about me, I'm sure. I worry about it being a comfort for you... I want to say come here, tell me what is wrong. I never do. I'd never point it out, it isn't for me to say, you are probably hyper aware of it anyway. You don't have to eat yourself away. And she thinks I'm being eating disordered again. She thinks that I'm too thin, whereas I'm the fattest I've ever been, and probably this is the healthiest attitude I've had to food for a fair while. I am not too thin; but she catches me at awkward times. Tonight, for example, I'd had toast and cereal before they took me out- and I felt like I had to eat to show them I wasn't starving myself. Or worse, lying- one of our acquaintances, pudding, who produces plays, is fairly fat. Her legs are like sausage meat, vacuum packed into flares that show the chafe. She takes pictures from high angles to showcase herself, when she is never pretty because of her dumpy face. There is no elegance or strength in her; even at her largest, larger than Pudding, Little Bird was always strong and powerful when she moved. And I, though once porcine, have always been flexible and graceful. I never slumped. Anyway, the point of Pudding is that she never eats a proper meal when she is out with us; she makes a show of eating the littlest amount of all of us there. It's ridiculous; whatever is the truth, it makes me feel better about myself. If she overate, it would be honest. Undereating says either: I am helpless over this way I look, which makes me feel like the thin one that eats whatever she wants, though that's not the case, but it's significantly more than her non-eating. Or it says: I am doing this as a show for you, and once I get home I will cram what I've missed into my face. I am embarrassed by myself. This is probably the more accurate reading. I do eat less when I'm out, it's true, but I'm sure she shows a greater disparity. She buys the most expensive high range make up products; Clinique foundations, Marks and Spencer's hair removers, tweak tweak tweak... and yet, I'd rather be myself with my ivory maybelline concealer, E45 lip balm and L'oreal mascara. I'd rather be me without makeup at all. I know I look better.

I don't look better than Little Bird. That's alright though. I don't look better than a lot of my friends; but they don't showcase their wealth like she does. Little Bird probably has more makeup than Pudding, even, but that doesn't irk me. I think Pudding's ethos is that enough of the correct brand will buy her happy, something we all left behind around eleven years of age.

Despite not feeling as pretty, clever, talented or attractive, or anything else as my friends, I would not change with them. I don't think so. They will probably be better and more successful etcetera; but there is a great joy in autonomy.

I was talking to him about how boys cry when I split up with them. I don't know why. When she split up with me, I was simply very quiet, then when I found out she'd never felt like I had for her, I was angry and then embarrassed. Why would she lie? Why put me through it if she was bored the entire time? Why sour a perfectly good friendship; she simply could have said no. Anyway, I never cried. I swore and screamed, in fields outside, and kicked things instead. I never asked her why or told her how I felt; because it would have been pointless. Why is because she never loved me like that; maybe pitied me. Answer answered. And to tell her would have made her feel guilty; I felt angry with her, but I felt more embarrassed that I'd been an albatross round her neck. I felt embarrassed that I'd wasted her time and that she hated me (because love turns quick to hate when I'm on that end). I felt like I didn't want to plague her further. He said, this thing of plaguing, was very selfless, in a strange way. I think he was surprised with me. I like surprising him.

His and hers.

Today, I've eaten about 1700 calories, and I didn't leave the house till eleven pm, and I lost all of my dissertation notes. I wrote about 1000 words of it though.

I am actually happy. I am happy that Little Bird and he, and my other friend (Thin Man, let's say) came to fetch me because they so dearly wanted to eat with me that they kidnapped me. I'm happy that we went to Tescos, and that I terrified Little Bird whilst she and he waited in the car as I turned sumersaults in a car park. I'm happy about our time together. I'm happy.

Little Bird makes me happy. He does too, in a different way. I don't know. He made me flip for a fair while, and I fear now it is waning.

My Grandma sent me a card today. I prefer to communicate with her by letter; I dislike phone conversations, preferring face to face exchange because I tangle the words down the telephone wires. I like writing and I like getting letters. My Grandma is excessively garrulous, so letter writing confines her to a page. Today, though, she sent me ten pounds with the letter and I feel as though she's trying to buy my letter writing. I write because I like writing; and, if I'm honest, I prefer it. To tarnish it with ten pounds seems so very mercenary. I will have to thank her for it; and she doesn't respond to my form of thanks very well, it's never effusive enough. This ten pounds makes me feel very guilty.

What would you do if you were here, Lady of the Rings, my other Grandmother? What would you say to me? I wish I knew. I sometimes worry I adore you more because death always elevates a person. I do wish to be like you, adventurous and successful, good at people, good at committees... I don't think I am. I worry I am more like your sister. I focus too much on down emotions, I am silly too.

Am I enough of a lady for you? I don't think so. I am ramshackle in comparison; I should effect my own style more, I know, wear more makeup. Be a lady. Not even a lady, just to make the best of myself. That's what you would say. And you'd tell me I was doing well, and that I should write a book, and that you were proud of me. You might have shown me makeup... well, I worked it out on my own anyway.

I might have showed you my theatre school monologues. I don't trust the other to keep the secrets. I'm only showing two of my tutors.

"I'll show you when I'm thinner".

That is what she said about her birthmark tonight; one on her shoulder and one on her stomach. I wanted to say, "You are perfect as you are". I have tried so hard to rid myself of this stupid obsession that I want it for her too; I don't even think she likes being tied up in food and things, and I don't want her to have that hanging over her. I hate sounding patronising, because lord knows my food relations are still less than perfect. But I hope for better for her than I do for myself.

She is perfectly lovely, and so pretty that she even makes my awful headband I wear to study look good. One day I will tell her that she has bad qualities; but they are over enthusiasm and flightiness. These are none so bad, dear. You're beautiful, kind, funny, clever... there's a list of complimentary adjectives.

The other night she said she just wanted to be mean to whoever she was in a relationship with, or just to be desperately cruel to someone. I understand; she's been through a lot and she needs to let it out.

The man she likes was insensitive today. He called her fat, in front of people (and I know him, he is not malicious or horrible, and was only saying it because he doesn't think she is at all fat) but she thinks that she is at the moment. Misinterpretations are hazardous. He's directing her in a play and she doesn't like that he is arrogant as a director (all directors have to be, though, I think). Having said that, she doesn't mind when I refer to her as a pork in our stupid accent. I wonder if she knows she is beautiful? I might send her a post I wrote about her a while ago. To make her happier.

Magdalen Laundries.

Oh those dirty, dirty girls. God Bless them, I crossed myself. The calico itched my breasts under the starched wimple and I was grateful for God reminding me, in His Infinite Wisdom, that I was right. That little scratch, a raw red line across my nipple straight from him; his caresses against me, and I was glad for it.

I would have to punish Rose later, but that was not until later, and I would be ready for it by then. After all, they needed to be kept in line, and kept well, or they would not be here under his Divine Plan; it was merely us that carried it out, specially. And I was not perfect; my waistband cut into the soft white flesh from too many potato farls, my five decades on this mortal coil began to strain my corpus at the edges. I, too, was to ritually abase myself before Him.

I wasn't always in tune with His plan. I remember the grass on my legs when Peter and I played by the stream near ours; and I told him how girls were beautiful, I thought, I thought the books I read showed me the truth. My brother said these old masters, these latin men, had said the same thing, and everything we did now came from them. I said it was a sin, to say such things of heathens; but their language is ours now, and their practices are out. Their words are gorgeous though, I crammed them into my mouth greedy like doughy lumps of bread, I couldn't wait to devour the verbs and the roots of all our words, our bastard words. It wasn't to be though; they wanted me to marry, to stop working (it ain't for a girl, says mother, unless you want to be a nun). I could never love a man; marriage seemed to me a shackle to a tiresome beast. I liked the clean; so I went to our convent. I'm a good nun. I'm Mother Superior, I am Him.

In my mind, He was never a He. He looked like the girls in our place; he looked out of their terrified eyes at me, his was the tiny gleaming stone in an edifice of sin. I can look at those girls and see something beautiful in their fallen, sin ravaged bodies. They are beautiful (but the Devil will make them beautiful, and God is ugly because he is honest. They are always godliest after their eyelashes drip with the blood of their newly shaved heads, a baptism in their own soiled viscera to be born again for me, my dirty daughters).

I can be kind. Iona's son left the other day; a boy, and he never knew his mother. The others sob and scream the grey air blue; they tear their hair, if they have it. She sat, with his imprint still left in her arms, staring at the wall and refusing to acknowledge his not being there, she would not wash and she would not sleep. She stayed in the room for two days. When they are like that, He wants me to comfort them. I stroked her shiny hair (it is shiny, though when we crop it usually it springs into tufts) and caressed her breasts. They respond to that kind of touch sometimes; I know it is wrong. But I cannot always be Godly, sometimes, he works in mysterious ways. When I touched her, her milk sprang forth in a stream over my hand but she did not move to wipe it. I kissed the wan lips, mine wet with colostrum, and stroked that pretty head once more. She is beautiful, the devil, Lucifer; and when I touch her, I am putting God back into her, I enlarge that tiny speck of good in Beelzebub's girl.

She started back on the iron press after that, anyway.

All I want is the best for our lives, my dear, and you know my wishes are sincere.

All I want is the birds for our eyes, my dear.

I thought this was the lyric; I think I like mine better. I just want to show you the birds, so much more romantic I think.

I talked to him last night.

I could feel that he was hard under his trousers... but I didn't say anything. So I knew it was a lie when he said he wasn't attracted to anyone... he said maybe he's gay. Or maybe he hasn't met the right man or woman. Who, who who?

I like his soft cheeks and his beautiful face, his pretty eyes and his argumentative ways. Or the little lump at the nape of his neck, and his hair. He had a spot above his left eyebrow tonight, and he was worrying it with a fingertip and being pedantic about it as he usually is. I touched it for him and stroked his forehead. He said, "nobody's ever touched me like that". It was serious, even, I think. When he's worried all I want to do is lie his head against my chest, kiss him and stroke his hair. I can't do the middle one, but sometimes (just sometimes) I rest my lips on the top of his head.

Then there is Little Bird; I tried to draw her today, I got her but I couldn't make her mouth come out right. She's always beautiful. I can't tolerate her believing what those horrible people said, she is neither fat nor pregnant, she is not horrible, she is lovely. What I really want is to hold her tight and to let her let it all out, or to go running with her and she could run it out. Little Bird, haven't you heard, you're being absurd. Everyone adores you- even he does, and that is why he's making you sad. Other people show it in normal ways. Stop worrying.

Not many people.

My dearest, when you speak with a sob behind a laugh I want nothing more than to gather you up in my arms and shield you from everyone else. Not many people make me feel that. And I would. You try to make yourself vomit when you are drunk (do you do it every day too, I wonder) and I would take your fingers from your clawed throat without being too precious about it. I'll tell you you're beautiful, clever, popular and kind, all of those things that you truly are. I liked to hold your chapped rough hands, they're useful hands. I'd wipe away your tears oft shed, and I would let you cry them onto me, because it is important to be allowed to cry sometimes, and then we could be quiet together like we always are.

Your propensity for self-flagellation makes me want to remove whatever it is you're beating yourself with perpetually and soothe it with cool calm words and caresses.

Soft and sweet.

Little Bird has been sad for a while now; she was on antidepressants earlier this year. I felt bad because I didn't know, or I hadn't worked it out; she'd come round to mine and we'd sit quietly and watch something, but that was fine. I like to be quiet sometimes. I thought she did too, and that was all there was. She might not be on them now, but I don't want to ask if she doesn't want to tell me. Then her Dad's stopped speaking to her because she's moved with her Mum (her parents are getting divorced) and her ex-boyfriend is horrible to her. She never really liked him as a boyfriend, but he hassled her into seeing him; then when she ended it he wanted still to be friends. He went round to her house one night and spent forty minutes telling her she was a terrible person, and tonight he told her boys are playing a game called Fat or Pregnant? behind her back. She cried (she got drunk) after the terrible person night, and tonight I thought she might again; we were food shopping and she told me about the game. I wanted to give her a big enveloping embrace and to tell her she looked lovely, but I couldn't in a food shop. In any shop, in public, really. I had to make do with rubbing her arm like some sort of sexual deviant- I am ridiculous at times. Her ex is very ugly, but charismatic; I think he manipulates her too easily. She is beautiful, and therein lies the problem; he wants to knock her down.

She's gained a little bit of weight recently; my friends noticed, and it was only then that I did. I didn't because I see her most days. I always thought she looked just beautiful; and she is one of the people I could say this about, and mean it, and yet she never made me feel ugly for it as most do unintentionally. She's wonderful, and she doesn't need people to say those things about her. He didn't need to say it to her. I am furious with him; she's having a bad enough time as it is without him ruining her again.

Darling, one day I will hold you as your mother did when you were a child and reassure you that you are wonderful in every way. I think that you need someone to do that at the moment; there are a variety of people you could go to, but I wouldn't mind if you chose me. I'd be honoured.

Oh me my.

Sometimes I want to shake you and shout, "stop being so self-pitiful", or, "stop ordering me about, you aren't always right".

Other times I just want to hold you tight and let you feel safe, because it seems you hardly ever do. You are selfish, but I do love your head on my shoulder.